At Pilot Mountain, NC
The Little Pinnacle’s ragged
shaggy cliff hangs high
above the crooked trail.
You find the top-rope
anchors, drop
the line and wait
for me to yell
it’s reached
the bottom,
then rappel
down the face
to preview holds.
I make you go up first
and watch your feet find
cracks invisible to those below.
We climb five times,
five hundred feet, hug
an arête, stem up
a dihedral, then kiss
a roof, jam up
a chimney: words that make
the mountain a house
with endless doors
and windows open.
How far
can the eye really see?
I’ve never trusted
such fingery holds,
tiptoe edges, though
you say there’s no choss
and let me follow
in my own time.
Neighboring climbers
keep falling—
they’re on a different route,
maybe harder, perhaps
with less protection.
At nearly sixty-four
I like being
a beginner again
don’t mind awkward
moves, though
I’m climbing well above
my realistic level.
When I reach the top
of Dirty Rotten Scoundrel
you snap a pic
to send our friends
and hold hard
with both hands,
carefully belay
while I inch up
Kiss My Ass.
I’ve never been this high
before, had so much
exposure. Happily,
I’m not afraid
of falling
and starting over.
